


Shone Like the Moon

by ieatgrassalot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cowboy Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Show Me Your Dick Steve, These tags will develop just please give this a chance, a couple of dudes being gay, just a couple of guys bein dudes, no beta we die like men, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26733406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ieatgrassalot/pseuds/ieatgrassalot
Summary: McCree isn’t a good fella. A ‘good fella’ doesn’t get done shooting a man in the middle of the street and then waltz in a rickety old bar for a drink and then sit himself down like he hadn’t just ended a life. But here he sits, hunched over his whisky with his hat brim tipped low after receiving the said compliment from the bartender. The drink he ordered is half gone now, and the burn of his last swig still fizzles in his throat; but as he goes to chase it down with another sip, the barstool creaks next to him. He doesn’t stop to swivel his head, but it takes an extra second to raise the glass to his lips.“You’re a good shot.”The barstool speaks now, but he still doesn’t look over to respond. He swirls the whiskey in its glass and watches the honeyed liquid gloss over the sides before settling back into itself.“Ain’t too happy about it, I’m afraid.” He responds with a grimace.The barstool chuckles, husky. “Self-righteousness does not suit bloodied hands.”-Two fucked up dudes. A bunch of fucked up moral codes. One mission: find a man, don't get killed.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 33
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

McCree isn’t a good fella. A ‘good fella’ doesn’t get done shooting a man in the middle of the street and then waltz in a rickety old bar for a drink and then sit himself down like he hadn’t just ended a life. But here he sits, hunched over his whisky with his hat brim tipped low after receiving the said compliment from the bartender. The drink he ordered is half gone now, and the burn of his last swig still fizzles in his throat; but as he goes to chase it down with another sip, the barstool creaks next to him. He doesn’t stop to swivel his head, but it takes an extra second to raise the glass to his lips. 

“You’re a good shot.”

The barstool speaks now, but he still doesn’t look over to respond. He swirls the whiskey in its glass and watches the honeyed liquid gloss over the sides before settling back into itself.

“Ain’t too happy about it, I’m afraid.” He responds with a grimace. 

The barstool chuckles, husky. “Self-righteousness does not suit bloodied hands.”

He laughs a that one, albeit sadly before he swigs down the last of his drink. The man sighs as he puts his glass back down and leans back in his stool, opting to sit straight before he decides to spare a glance at the seat next to him. The man is clean-cut, looks around his age - though there’s no drink in sight, and about three other barstools he could’ve taken up before landing on the one next to him. He’s been here before.

“So, what brings you my way, if you don’t mind my proddin’ you?”

The other man’s eyes squint to his hands that are resting curled on the bar top. He’s gone quiet suddenly like he hadn’t started the conversation. McCree scoffs at him.

“Well, it can't be nothin’. I came in for a drink, and I finished it quick to speak with ya.” He says, fishing out his wallet.

“You speak too soon.” The barstool spits out. Odd - wasn’t he chuckling earlier? “Let me answer before you assume I won’t.”

McCree clicks his tongue but bites back his response. The other man didn’t look like he was from around here, so he supposes he was trying to find his words. Lord knows you had to choose them carefully around these parts.

“I require a second pair of hands, for a job.”

Oh. McCree honestly thought he was about to get challenged to another shootout again; but as nice as the change of pace was, the request still fell sour. ‘Job’ is usually a codeword in towns like these, and though he was just passing through, he knew the dialect like the back of his hand. He clicks his tongue again and puts his wallet back into his serape but pulls out a cigar tin.  
“ ‘Fraid I’m retired from ‘jobs’ like that.” He replied, pulling a cigar and snipping off the end and placing it in his mouth. “You should get to retirin’ too if ya know what’s good for ya.”

The man beside him draws back, eyebrows furrowed. “Do not threaten me.” He replies darkly. McCree scoffs at him, mouth poised to reply before the man keeps going. “And I was not asking for a partner in crime, McCree.”

He lights his cigar and draws in a breath, holding it. “So, you know my name, then.”

“You’re posted to every wall in every major city I’ve visited.” The man replies. McCree lets out the smoke in a sigh. “Not that any cities here can be considered ‘major’. Either way, you are impossible to miss.”

McCree chuckles. “Shoo’, darlin’, you’ll make me blush.”

“It was not a compliment.” 

He glances over to the other man again, taking another drag from his cigar. “Reckon since you know my name, I should know yours.” He replies, blowing out the smoke and watching it curl lazily into the air. 

The corners of the other man’s lips draw down, seemingly perturbed by the question. He hums. “Shimada.”

“Last names, then?”

Shimada huffs out a breath. “I do not think of us on a first-name basis. Unless you have some objection to that, as well.”

McCree chuckles at that and tips his hat back on his head. “You got me there.” He takes another drag of his cigar and puffs it out. “So? What kinda job you talkin’ ‘bout, if not the illegal kind?”

“I require an escort.” He replies, not missing a beat. He digs into his coat, fishing around before pulling out a map and placing the rolled paper on the bar top.

McCree places his hand over the table, on top of the map. “You’ll have to excuse me, darlin’, but if you need a good shot for this -” He says, giving his best grin against the glare the other man is giving him. He drops his voice to a low whisper. “- you may not want to disclose the location out in the open.”

Shimada takes a quick glance around the room, eyeing the patrons without turning his head. McCree had felt eyes on him as soon as he walked in, having just killed a man - and the stranger from a foreign land wasn’t making it better.

“Understood.” He replies. He leaves the map on the table, and fishes around his coat a little bit deeper, before pulling out a flask and placing it on the bar top as well. McCree can tell what he’s doing - acting like he was fishing around for something else. He takes the map back and slides it back into his jacket, and twists the cap off the flask, taking a sip.

McCree huffs. “So, you do drink.”

Shimada shakes his head. “This is water.” He replies and places the flask back down. “I do not drink when I’m working.”

“Workin’? Thought you said you needed a second, for your job.” McCree replied, gesturing to him with his cigar. 

“I do. That does not mean the job has not already started.” Shimada replies, taking his flask and twisting the cap back on, placing it back into his jacket as well. “Meet me at the motel, room three.”

McCree’s brow furrows, and he can feel his eyes narrow as he glances at the man beside him. “And why should I?”

The other man looks at him for the first time that night, his gaze piercing straight through him. “How does a life without a bounty sound?”

McCree almost scoffed at him, if not for those eyes. “And why should I believe an offer like that?”

Shimada smirks at him, before pushing back from the bar and standing up. “Why don’t you come to find out?” He replies, turning to leave. “After sundown. This will be my only offer.”

And with a bow of his head and quick turn, the man is out of the bar faster than McCree could blink. He takes another deep drag of his cigar before stubbing it out on the bar top and clicking his tongue again. “Well, shit.”

-

McCree checks his gun again before heading inside. It was past sundown, per request, and he wasn’t the kind of man to go into a new location unprepared. He pushes the door to the old motel open, the creak of it just on the side of too loud for his tastes. The inside is dimly lit, and a middle-aged woman sits at the reception desk, not looking up to him. McCree’s eyes dart around the room before he steps inside, and his footsteps make the woman look up. Her eyebrows rise, interested but not surprised. 

“What can I do ya for?”

McCree chooses to ignore the wording. “I’ve got a friend waitin’ for me. Room three, I believe.”

She nods. “He that Japanese fella?”

“I ain’t too sure of the specifics, ma’am, be he ain’t from around here.” He responds. 

She nods to the door to the right of her. “That’d be down that hallway, sweet pea.” She says, looking back down at her desk. “He’s real quiet, that one. Best keep your gun loaded - you never know what they’ll do.”

McCree grits his teeth at the blatant racism but tips his hat anyway. He thanks her curtly, before walking through the door and down the hallway, stopping at the room marked with the number three. He brings his fist up and knocks on the door.

“Enter.” He hears, muffled through the worn-down wood. He twists at the door handle, creaking it open slowly. Satisfied when he doesn’t see a gun aimed at him on the other side, he steps into the room. It's dingy, and only lit by a few candles, one sitting on a small desk where Shimada has situated himself. He looks like he’s fine tuning a weapon of some kind, and McCree chooses to ignore it as he takes in the rest of the room. There’s a small bed, a nightstand, and a chair in the corner, with a duffel bag situated on top. The zipper is undone, revealing clothing and a few other items that raise no concern. McCree lets himself breathe.

“Howdy again.” He says, finally fully stepping in and closing the door behind him.

Shimada pauses in what he’s doing, placing the object in his hands down next to him. “Hello.” He replies, as he begins to clear the table. McCree can’t stand silence on his best day - it frays his nerves and twitches his trigger finger something awful, but that seems to be Shimada’s whole gig. He fidgets in place and leans himself back and forth on his feet as the other man puts up his things. The flame of the candle on the table flickers with every movement, and he lets his eyes linger there to distract himself.

“You may sit, you know.” Shimada says, gesturing to the small bed in the middle of the room. 

McCree shakes his head. “No thank you, partner. I prefer to stand.” He replies. It’s not particularly true - his legs are sore from today's journey but taking the seat could imply he’s letting his guard down. Never let your guard down in unknown territory.

Shimada scoffs. “Suit yourself,” He says, finally clearing the table of all the fancy tool’s he’d had out early. “But rest assured that bed is not rigged to kill you.”

McCree almost laughs at that. Almost.

“Since you are here, I assume you are interested in my offer.” Shimada continues, not missing a beat. “Mind you this will not be easy.”

McCree huffs and shifts again. “It’s never easy anyway.”

“You are not wrong.” Shimada replies, the corner of his lips quirked up. He shakes his head, the quirk falling away, and he pulls the map out of his coat pocket again before rolling it out on the table. McCree glances at it, noting the marks - a few exes, some lines tracing over pre-made trails, and a few symbols and scribbles here and there. One stands out, but before McCree can get a grasp on it, Shimada places his hand over the spot. McCree raises a brow and draws his eyes from the spot, landing on the other man's gaze that's drilling through him. It feels like it's a scolding from a father, or a threat - he never had a good grasp on the distinction between them. The other man's lips curl back.

“You whisper a word of this, to anybody -” He starts, emphasizing his words and lacing them with venom, “- you are already dead.”

McCree smiles at him, small but a threat all its own. “I ain’t a fan of tellin’ another man's secrets,” He starts, putting his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, “But if this is some sorta trap to lure me to my death, rest assured, I will find out.”

Shimada’s eyes narrow at him, his gaze sharpening to something McCree can practically feel driving through his skull before he looks back to the map. “If I wanted you dead, you would not be here to say that.”

“May o’ people have said the same thing to me, partner.” He replies. He’d been lured into a fair share of traps to know what one looks like, but he’s never adverse to learning something new. This would be the most elaborate trap he’d been lured into so far.

Shimada scoffs at him again before finally removing his hand from the top of the map. McCree’s eyes immediately snapped to the paper, reading over the writing he’d seen earlier, revealing that it wasn’t just some especially good-looking scribble. It was all written in Japanese. Well, at least he knows where he’s from now. Shimada’s hand obscures his view again and points to where they are now on the map, before tracing it along a long line and landing in Oregon. 

“If you are to join me, this is the route we are taking. I am not familiar with this land, and that's partially where you come in.” He explained. He traces his finger back along the line and down to the first ‘X’ that’s near it. “I am looking for someone. These markings indicate where I’ve heard he has been.”  
McCree nods. “And who’re you lookin’ for?”

Shimada's lips curl slightly, like he’s reluctant to say it, before he mumbles a name. “Genji.” Her replies, gesturing to the writing McCree’s eye caught earlier.

“M’kay. What's the relation?” He asks, glancing over to Shimada’s face. His brows are pinched, and he looks back to McCree.

“That is not a concern for this job. All you must know is that I am looking for him.” He replied, all bite. McCree decides to back off from the subject, and nods at the other man to continue.

He squints at him but looks back to the map. “Understand that it is imperative that we bring him back alive. I plan on you helping me during that phase, as well.” He continues, sliding the map towards the edge of the table. McCree strolls over, finally walking closer to the sharp edge of a man sitting at the desk. He leans over to take a better look. The ‘X’ marks are sprinkled across most of the map, but the densest area is running across the line the other man had traced earlier. He follows the rest of the line - presumably where the other man had travelled through before arriving where they are - and it reveals he’d traveled in a serpentine pattern, hitting every ‘X’ from North Carolina to where they are now. It looks like he’s following the trail of someone running from him.

“And what if we don't find him? Or he’s dead already?” He asks, leaning away from the map. The other man slides the map back in front of him on the desk.

“He is not dead, and he would be very hard to kill.” He replies, rolling up the map and putting it back into his coat. “And if we do not find him, we will both leave far poorer and far more hunted then we already are.” 

McCree takes his hat off his head, mocking fainting. “Oh how awful.” He drawls, before quickly slapping the hat back on his head. “Can’t be any poorer if you’re flat broke, and the whole country’s tryna hunt me down.” He says, cocking his hip. 

Shimada chuckles at that. “You have nothing to lose, then.” He replied, before shucking off his jacket completely and draping it on his chair. McCree’s eyes snap to the gnarly tattoo trailing down his entire arm. He lets out a low whistle and a curse.

“Goddamn, partner, that must’ve hurt like a bitch.” He leans to look at it closer, and the other man draws back. McCree stands back straight. “I ain’t gonna bite ya. It’s a nice piece,” He continued, “Reckon I ain't seen anything like it.”

The other man trails a hand down his tattoo, his face pinched into something unreadable. “Hopefully, you will never see anything like it again. And yes, it was extremely painful - one of the side effects of being a Shimada.” He replied. McCree nods in understanding - he’d gotten a bitch of a tattoo a long time ago, and he remembers that it hurt pretty bad. It pales in comparison to getting the arm ripped off though. 

“So? That it?” He asks. The map was put away, so he assumes that’s the extent of the job description. Shimada nods, licking his forefinger and thumb and stamping out the candle on the desk. It being the only source of light, the room drops into darkness.

“You are aware of the rewards and outcomes, so yes.” He responds. He stands from the desk and walks the short distance to the edge of the bed, before sitting and starting to unlace his boots. “Unless you plan on sleeping on the floor, I suggest you find someplace else to sleep.”

McCree chuckles. “Y’sure I can't sleep with ya?”

Shimada looks at him with the flattest stare he’s ever received, and McCree leaves without a word, tail between his legs.


	2. Chapter 2

McCree wakes up leaned against the old bar he’d gone to yesterday, his horse still tied to the post in front of him. He blinks slow for a few seconds, before trying his hand at getting up off of the wall - to no avail, as his bones and muscles ache horribly. He groans, flopping back onto the bar wall before slumping onto his side and rolling onto his chest. He pushes up from there, righting his hat back on his head (it practically never comes off) and sits up straight, stretching his arms above his head. His spine pops in a myriad of cracks, and he lets out a pained sound at the feeling. He’ll never get used to the back pain that follows a good night's rest on the wall - assuming you could call it that.

He pats his sides, checking for all his belongings. Gun? Check. Flashbangs? Check. Empty wallet? Check. Finding everything on him, he finally stands, his knees popping too. He looks to the sky to check how long he’d slept - and given that the sun is farther above the horizon than usual, this is probably the longest sleep he’d have for a while. He’d love to know the actual time, but that ability was lost with his old pocket watch. It was his Dads, a family heirloom of sorts, and he cherished it up until it was stolen. Funnily enough, it was stolen off of him one of the other times he’d passed out against a wall.

It’s a lose-lose situation. Sleep inside someplace, and your horse will get stolen. Sleep outside, and someone will pick something right off of you. 

He rights the hat on his head. He misses that old thing, truth be told.

Absentmindedly, he pats the spot on his chest it used to sit, and he lets out a short little huff. Here he is, getting sentimental over something that’s long gone - he thought he dropped that habit a long time ago. He drops his hand and stretches himself this way and that, making sure all his parts are working before he finally steps away from the front of the bar and towards his horse, who’s been staring him down the entire time. He swears the thing can read his mind, maybe that's just him finally going senile; but either way he walks up to it and pats her on the nose. He whispers a greeting before side stepping her, and he pats her all the way down her back as he walks by.

The walk from there to the small hotel isn't too far. A few shops down and across the street and he’s there, where he spots Shimada standing out front, tapping his foot. He’s fully decked out in riding gear, standing next to one of the most beautiful horses McCree has ever seen. It's a gorgeous jet-black American standardbred, standing taller than both men, and it notices him faster than the other man does. It dwarfs McCree’s horse, and while he’s still half thinking about it, Shimada’s head finally snaps up to look at him. His brows are pinched and he’s glaring at him, practically forcing McCree out of his thoughts, and robbing his focus. He starts to raise his hand to wave at him but gets cut off when the other man stalks towards him.

“Where have you been?” He spits, “It is almost noon, McCree. I planned on leaving at sunrise.” 

McCree, taken aback by the sudden aggression, bares his teeth to respond. “Well I didn’t hear anything about a startin’ time, partner. In fact, I recall you bein’ the one shooing me off yesterday!” He leans down into the other man's face, bending at the waist. “So don’t go blamin’ me for something that ain't my fault.”

The other man backs up with a scoff. “You would think a man running from the law would wake with the sunrise.” He replies. McCree feels his skin prickle, and he opens his mouth to speak before Shimada raises a hand to stop him and turns around. “No matter. We do not have time for this. At least tell me you have your own horse.”

McCree’s brow furrows, but he clicks his tongue and complies. “O’ course I have one. Just wasn’t expectin’ to wake up and high-tail it.” He responds, also turning away. “I’ll go get her. Don’t ride off without me.”

“I will use whatever patience I have left.” He hears behind him, and McCree rolls his eyes before going and getting his horse. She snuffles at him, inspecting his pockets and hands like he’s got food there, and he pats her nose apologetically. He unties her from the post and leads her back around to the hotel, where the other man has already mounted his horse. Shimada is quite a picture like that - back ramrod straight and looking like the world is testing him with how slow McCree is walking. He subconsciously picks up the pace and jams his foot into his horse’s stirrup, swinging himself onto her back. 

Shimada raises a brow at him. “That is your horse?” He asks, previous malice subsided. “It is so small.”

“I’ll have you know she is a normal sized horse for her breed. Your horse is just massive.” He replies, patting his horse on the side of her neck. He leans towards her ear and starts to whisper. “Don’t listen to him, sweetheart. You’re a good size.”

Shimada rolls his eyes, almost quick enough to miss, before kicking the side of his monster horse. “So be it. Just don’t fall behind.” He says, his horse starting to walk away.

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Busy-body.” He responds, sure to say the nickname under his breath. Relieved when the other man doesn't seem to respond, he lets out a sigh at the same time his stomach growls. The other man turns around at that, somehow twisting to look at him while his hips stay forward on his horse. McCree can only dream about being that flexible - well, without being in horrible pain.

“Do you carry any food on you?” Shimada asks, his horse still moving forward. 

McCree chuckles sheepishly. “Yeah, usually do. ‘Fraid I’m cleaned out right now though.” He replies.

Shimada turns himself back around and pulls on his horse's reins, stopping it. “Will you make it to the next town? It will be a few hours.” He asks. 

“Yeah, I’ll make it, ‘s long as we can get lunch.” He replies, patting his stomach. “I’ve run on empty before, though.”

Shimada shakes his head. “I will need you ready in case something happens. The quickest path to the next town is through dense woods - we can hunt something there.”

“You eat already?” McCree asks. The sudden caring-about-whether-he-eats-or-not is doing something funny to him, but he guesses it’s because no one’s been worried about whether he’s eaten in a long while.

“I have. If you had woken up earlier, you would have, too.” He replies, kicking the side of his horse to get it going again. Whatever funny thing was happening to McCree is immediately stamped out by the snarky response, and he huffs, but kicks his horse to follow behind the other man.

McCree tries to familiarize himself with staring at the other man's back for the foreseeable future. His posture really is incredible, even with the horse's muscles swaying the saddle back and forth, and he can appreciate a set of wide (albeit compact) shoulders. He can also appreciate a nice ass, even half covered by the back of the saddle. Admittedly, Shimada is a very handsome man, and McCree would probably be into him if he weren’t kind of a jerk so far, and he almost sighs audibly at the loss. Another mean face with a nice ass.

On second thought, it might be a nice face - if the man took a moment to stop frowning. Either that, or his resting bitch face is just legendarily intense. He shrugs it off - he won’t see said face for a while. He settles into his saddle, aiming to get as comfortable as possible before the sun ends up directly overhead; and he can practically feel the sweat that’ll be dripping off of his brow when it does. Thank everything his old hat has held up for so long.

-

Instead of hours, it feels like days later; and McCree has grown horribly bored as they both rode in silence, not even a glance spared back at him. He sighs again (one of many on this trip) and checks the placement of his hat on his head for the forty-seventh time. He checks his gun again, patting down his pockets to occupy his hands, relying on his horses natural trailing to keep behind Shimada’s. He feels gross in his clothes, and the dust collecting between his teeth is itching at him something fierce as another drop of sweat trails down his neck and into his shirt collar. He finishes patting his pockets and sighs again, and somehow it catches the other man’s attention this time.

“What?” He says, practically growling out the word.

“‘S nothin’.” McCree replies, fully knowing it's not.

Shimada sucks his teeth. “You have been sighing over and over for at least the past hour.” He points out. “It is obviously not ‘nothing’.”

“Just a lil’ bored, is all. I’ll make it.” He responds. Shimada scoffs at him, and mumbles something under his breath. McCree leans forward in his saddle. “What’d ya say, partner?”

The other man sighs, this time, and grumbles out his response. “I said I will not make it. You wear my patience.”

McCree sucks his teeth this time. “Well, I’m sorry ‘bout that. We’ve been ridin’ for hours in dead silence; a man tends to get bored.” He responds. 

“What, do you have something else we can do?” Shimada quips, still not turning round. He can see the man rolling his eyes through the back of his skull.

McCree wracks his brain for a response. In truth, he hadn’t really thought of an alternative option - just the fact that he wasn’t enjoying what they were doing now. He takes a minute to respond, before pulling on his horse's reins to get her to stop. At his horse stopping, Shimada stops on his own and turns to look at him, an expression flatter than Kansas.

“Could take a break, y’know. Horses must be tuckered out,” He says, leaning forward and giving his horse a loving pat. “Aintcha, girl?”

Shimada’s lips curl at the suggestion. “We are not far from the forest, you know. We could stop there.”

McCree rolls his eyes at him. “Y’aint catchin’ my drift, partner. I’m border than sin, and I need to do somethin’ or else I’ll lose my damn mind out here.” He replies. He looks at the other man, who’d sweat is dripping off of his chin and who’s clothes look bunched up uncomfortably. He almost laughs at the sight - an otherwise dignified man looking plainly undignified would tickle anyone, but this man in particular almost makes his straight up chortle. “And by the looks of it, friend, you look like you could use a break too.”

The other man glances down at himself, the cowboy hat on his head hiding his expression (although McCree swears he sees a hint of a blush under the brim), before he replies, still not looking up. “Fine.”

His heart leaps for joy as he slides off his horse, despite his legs being numb and his knees almost giving out under him. His horse sounds happy too, it snorts and huffs and he watches the muscles on her legs relax. He pats her on the nose for good measure, before whipping his head around for any foliage he can tie her too. He spots the other man out of the corner of his eye, dropping from the monument that is his horse's back, before he sighs and starts looking for a place to tie his horse as well. Eventually McCree spots a convenient branch of a lone tree, and he invites Shimada to tie his horse there as well.

The first thing he does is take the hat off his head and fan himself with it, letting out a huff, before grabbing the edge of his shirt collar and wiping his face with it. When his head pokes back out, he spots Shimada looking at him. He raises a brow.

“What?”

Shimada jerks his head away, acting like he’d been caught doing something bad. “It is nothing.”

It isn’t nothing - McCree can see that pretty clearly - but he drops it anyway, for the other man’s sake. He shrugs and places his hat back on his head before grabbing his flask from out of his serape, uncapping it and taking a heavy swig of the water inside. He swears he feels eyes on him again, but the feeling of the water gliding down his throat calls for more attention. He hears the cap of another flask open, and he glances over to see Shimada drinking from his own. 

When the flask finally falls from his lips, half-drained, he takes a deep breath. Thinking back on it, the silence between them will probably be bad in the long run, if the job’s going to go well. It also wouldn’t hurt to start trying to pick away at whatever else the other man is hiding from him. Clearly the job he’d enlisted him for was a lot more important than he was letting on, and the thought had picked at him among all the other ones on their ride. On top of that, their poor start off to the day had kept his mouth shut at first, but the stubbornness that had kept him quiet had subsided a while ago; and his mother raised a polite young man - well, when he was living with her still. All while he’s thinking this, McCree is zoned out on Shimada, who’s still sipping water from his flask. 

He hadn’t realized it before, but he was wearing his riding gear all wrong. His shirt isn't tucked into his pants, and the vest he had on was causing his shirt to bunch up around seemingly uncomfortable areas. He almost laughed before he really started thinking about it - the man had been riding around like this from North Carolina, which was a good distance away from their current location. It struck him as odd as to how he’d made it this far without someone correcting him, before he realizes that he may very well be the only person the other man had spent enough time around to warrant someone taking notice.

Whatever thoughts he had about picking away at their plan suddenly seem less important. “You know you’re wearin’ all that gear wrong, right?”

Shimada pauses in his drinking before glancing down to himself. “I had a feeling.”

“Well, you want to wear it right? It’d be a might more comfortable.” McCree responded, tipping his hat back on his head with the same one that's holding his flask.

Shimada glances back at him, shifting in his spot before looking back down at his state of dress. His lips purse slightly, and he squints, before sighing and closing his eyes, resigned. “If you would help me, it would be appreciated.”

McCree flicks the cap back into his flask and tightens it snugly, before sliding it back into a pocket on the inside of his serape. He tugs his own pants up before walking towards the other man. He gestures towards his partner's torso at the vest that's neatly buttoned down.

“Alright, take that off.” He says with all the casualness someone can have practically asking a business partner to strip.

The other man does as he’s told. He does it quickly, sliding it off his shoulders and handing it to McCree. He takes it awkwardly, not expecting the other man to hand it to him instead of hanging it off his horse or something. 

McCree tugs the hem of his own shirt, mimicking what the other man should do next, before his eyes land on the sliver of skin peeking out above his pants. He blinks to try and will himself from looking any longer. Before he gets a word out, the other man tugs the bottom of his shirt to straighten it and looks at McCree expectantly. He’s almost too distracted by the small patch of skin to notice but manages to gesture at the area with his hand.

“You’re gonna have to unbuckle your belt, there, to tuck in your shirt.” He directs, turning his eyes away preemptively. The sound of the belt buckle is enough to send a spark to his stomach, but he wills it down and replaces it with safer thoughts. First and foremost being that the man probably wants nothing to do with him, other than needing someone else to help him look for this ‘Genji’ guy. Second, being that the man probably doesn't share McCree’s particular interest in other men. Shimada snaps him out of his own thoughts.

“I appreciate the privacy, but I do still need some direction.” He says. McCree turns his eyes back to look at him, and immediately closes them and covers them with his hand at the sight of the other man. His pants are still unbuttoned, and his belt is still unbuckled, and although his shirt is tucked over his crotch, the short glance McCree had gotten still left little to the imagination.

“Lord above, Shimada, get your pants back on!” He cries, like the sight had caused him offense instead of something else. He can feel his face is beet-red behind his palm, and hearing Shimada refasten himself does little to help it die down.

He swears he hears the bastard chuckle. “Okay, what next?”

McCree takes a cautious glance over his hand before dropping it when he fully takes in that the other man’s pants are back on. “Just the vest, and you should be good to go. Unless your boots are on backwards.”

Shimada scoffs good-naturedly. “I am not completely inept.”

“I am well aware o’ that partner.” He responds with a chuckle, tipping his hat back down over his eyes. There’s a beat of silence, only filled by the sounds of the nature around them, before McCree scratches the back of his neck with one hand.

Everything from before them fixing the other man's clothing is trickling back into his mind. The amount of time the other man spent alone rubbed McCree the wrong way - yeah, he travels on his own, but he’s got at least a couple of friends here and there he visits while on the move. Judging by Shimada’s place of origin and general demeanor, he guesses he’s got no one but himself in the states. He feels bad for the shoddy first impression, and the general squabbling McCree participated in for their previous conversations. He sighs and looks at the other man, who also appears deep in thought.

“Hey, Shimada-”

“McCree, I-” 

They overlap each other, and they both cut themselves short, resulting in a familiar awkward chuckle. It takes a lot for McCree not to do the awkward chuckle, and instead gestures for Shimada to continue. The other man takes a breath, as if steeling himself.

“... I want to apologize for my behavior. Thinking back, I have been unnecessarily rude to you. I fear, in my time alone, the… finer aspects of my communication have faltered.” He says, still not looking at McCree.

McCree scoffs. “I ain’t been too personable either, partner. I was a might rude to you right back.” 

Shimada looks at him finally, and for the first time it’s not angry or flat - just focused sincerity and big brown eyes. He hadn’t noticed how big they were until now. “Either way, I apologize.”

It takes a minute for McCree to respond. “Apology accepted, partner. I’ll cut it out, too.”

It feels like a weight off his chest. They both take big, synchronized breaths, and McCree gives him a smile. “Truth be told, I’m real glad we went over that. Hate to be a bad business partner.” He jokes, nudging the man with his elbow. For a second, he fears he’s overstepped his bounds - too familiar, too friendly - before the other man's lips quirk up only slightly.

“And I as well. It would be entirely unpleasant if we kept at it.” He responds, putting his flask back onto the saddle on the side of his horse.

McCree huffs out a breath. “Y’ got that right, partner.”

There’s another beat of silence before the other man speaks again. “Hanzo.”

McCree quirks a brow at him.

“It is my first name.” He responds. McCree smiles at him and leans back against the tree the horses are tied to. The other man continues, leaning on the tree next to him. “Since we both decided that now is the time to be civil. And either way, I already know your first name.”

McCree chuckles. “That’s true. Well then, Hanzo, nice to finally meet you on equal footin’.”

“And you as well, McCree.” He responds.


	3. Chapter 3

They lingered there for about a half hour, talking about whatever came to mind. McCree found the conversation flowed smoothly and was grateful for it - the dead silence of their previous ride grated at his nerves fiercely. He was almost surprised the conversation came as clearly as it did, and the comfort is even so welcoming that he starts smoking a cigarillo - his assumption was that it would be choppy, due to his own lack of interaction with others for extended periods of time, and Hanzo’s general demeanor. Hanzo - the name found itself soft on his tongue - ‘Shimada’ felt so much angrier of a name, for some reason. They had a conversation about what it meant, and the other man explained that his first name roughly translated to “to hide half” but refrained from elaborating any further on his last name.

McCree chose against prying. He’d learned the hard way why he shouldn’t and earned a scar across his brow for it. He makes a promise to himself to try and not get into any bar fights while he’s working with Hanzo. It’d been a nasty habit he picked up when he was young, far too young to actually be inside a bar, but somehow, he always found himself there anyway. The split lip and black eye he always found himself with afterwards felt like trophies at the time, some way of proving himself in a “Hey look, I made it.” way, and look at him, going over the past again. He swears he cracks like an egg every time he finds some semblance of companionship, and he has to wonder to himself why. Whether it's from the thoughts making for an interesting story to tell at a campfire, or some desperate, small part of himself that just wants the memories gone; he isn’t sure. He doesn’t like the way he prods his own mind anyway, so he takes the cigarillo he lit and plucks it from his lips before tossing it to the ground and stamping it out with his boot.

“Alright, you ready to head on Hanzo?” He asks, his usual demeanor dimmed. He sees Hanzo raise a brow, but say nothing, and McCree tips his hat brim over his eyes.

“Has your boredom ceased?” He replies, pushing himself off of the tree.

McCree chuckles. “‘S long as the conversation doesn't end.”

Hanzo chuckles back. “Then yes.”

… Hanzo has a nice chuckle.

McCree regrets putting out his cigarillo.

They both get back on their horses, McCree giving his horse a loving pat on the neck, and Hanzo awkwardly mimicking him. It was odd to McCree, because that either meant that A, Hanzo was not a horse guy, or B, he had never petted his horse before, which is practically criminal in McCree’s eyes. It’s ironic almost, something being criminal in the eyes of a criminal. He chuckles to himself.

“What?” The other man asks. McCree waves him off good-naturedly.

They make good progress and make it to the forest before sundown, their conversation flowing as naturally as it had when they stopped. They both tiptoe around any talk of childhoods, and he feels relief that it’s mutual, and is tickled by Hanzo’s reaction to the sheer number of stories McCree has under his belt. His companion is engrossed in every one he tells him, and although McCree takes pride in his storytelling, he’s never had someone be so entrapped by it - the same eyes that glared him down now wide with every line. It makes him bashful. He jokes about keeping some stories for the campfire to excuse himself from telling any more, and he swears Hanzo almost looks disappointed at the notion before his brow furrowed in confusion.

“The first night will not be by a campfire. We’ve made it to the forest before sundown, and the next town is not far.” He responds, before backtracking. “Unless you mean for other nights.”

McCree nods, taking whatever he can get. “You don’t look too happy about it, but yeah, that’s the plan.” It is most definitely not the plan, but he’s not about to say it.

“You are an excellent storyteller, McCree. You cannot blame me for wanting to hear more.” He replies, face still neutral, save for the residual wonder in his eyes. He finally looks away from the other man, but unfortunately for McCree the compliment leaves his just as bashful.

“Well, sorry for havin’ you wait, then.” He responds, finishing off what little food he had stowed away. They had managed to hunt down a rabbit (or should he say Hanzo did, the man was incredible with his bow), but one lone hare split between two full grown men did little to assuage McCree’s hunger; thus making him rely on whatever rations he had stowed away in the deep recesses of his serape. He’s proud of how many pockets he’d managed to sew onto the inside, and even more proud that none of them had broken yet. 

He remembers his grandpa being cross with him about it, a long time ago. The thing had survived almost two generations - Jesse’s being the third - and he had thought himself clever for giving it a place to store all his knick-knacks. His grandpa had slapped the back of his head when he found him mid-stitching, and insisted he just go buy a bag, for Christ’s sake - he was always a little too crotchety for McCree’s tastes.

He thinks the memory wouldn’t hurt, if he weren’t six feet under.

“McCree.” Hanzo says, breaking him out of his musings. He glances at the other man, with a grin.

“Yeah?” 

Hanzo’s lips purse slightly and his brow furrows again. “You have gotten lost in thought again.” He replied, and stands from where they sat around the fire they had built to cook their catch. “I was saying we should go now, if we’re to get to town before nightfall.”

Thank god the other man doesn’t pry. He’s got a feeling that he wants to. “Alright, then.”

He hefts himself up from the ground and kicks dirt over the remaining embers of their campfire, and stomps them out completely with his boot, and they hit the road again.

It’s still a pleasant ride, despite McCree not filling the void with stories. Hanzo ends up telling him one, in his stead. Something about dragons, and brothers, and humanity, but honestly McCree is only half listening. He’s not a great listener at the best of times, and right now they’re racing against nightfall - but he has to admit, the silence is comfortable. And the sunset is gorgeous. He’s a sap for all things pretty, and the orange of the sun and the light it casts over the horizon paints quite a picture. Staring into it made everything else fall away, the nip of the breeze, gone to a steady warmth, and the dirt gritting between his teeth was almost sweet.

And for a second, McCree felt like he stopped running.

Until his horse startles at a dip in the road, jostling him from the view of the sunset, and he pats her neck to calm her down. Horses are skittish creatures, and he loves his dearly, but he may hold a small grudge against her now for making him miss the sun fully dropping, and the sky quickly starts to fade into night. He looks in front of him at Hanzo’s back, and then over his shoulder at the approaching town. The lights in the town started to flicker on, and McCree took note of its size - definitely bigger than the other one, but not big enough for him to get recognized, or be in any real trouble if he does.

Their entering the town was smooth, a few usual looks but no lingering ones. They both find a place to tie their horses, which happens to be a post outside of a small pub. Usually he would head on in, knock a few back and pass out outside, but Hanzo doesn’t make a move to enter. He stares at the wind-stripped paint of the sign hanging above the pub's door, the letters almost unreadable at this point before his eyes flick to the light shining through the door. 

“I do not plan on going inside unless you do. We do not have any more time to gather any information if we don’t want it from drunkards.” He says, looking to McCree.

McCree feels a slight offense, given that he would be one of those ‘drunkards’. “Well I ain’t got no spendin’ money, and we just ate, but it could be useful to make a few friends while we're here.” He responds, looking inside of the pub through a window. It’s busy. “But even then, you don’t look like you need much more info. Your map there looked pretty filled out.”

“I will take what I can get. The man I am looking for is fast, and smart about it. We may be on a path he manufactured, in truth.” He replied, turning from the pub. “Walk with me. We will find someplace to sleep that isn’t the outside of a pub, and we need supplies. The next destination is a two-day journey.”

McCree raised a brow. “Manufactured path? Y’ mean we could be walkin’ right into a trap or somethin’?” He asked, absentmindedly scratching his chin. “Coulda sworn you said you didn’t have one set.”

The other man scoffed at him. “Like I said, he is a smart man. But I also know he would never cause me any harm - most likely, he would set out a red herring for us to follow.”  
“Oh. Wait, if he’d never cause you harm, then why am I here?” McCree thought it was an innocent enough question, but his companion stiffened at it. He wouldn’t have noticed it yesterday, but the already stiff set of his shoulders somehow straightened further; even though his expression didn’t change.

“I told you. I need a guide of sorts. I am unfamiliar with the land.” He answered, not looking at McCree.

McCree hates prying. He really does, but here he is considering it.

He bites his tongue and saves his questions for later.

The rest of their walk is silent and tense, unlike the peaceful silence of the last stretch of their ride. It sets him fidgeting again, his fingers finding the edge of his own serape and flicking it back and forth between his fingertips, while his teeth practically beg for a cigarillo to chew on; so he pulls one out an places it between them, easing some of the ache, and he lights it for good measure before taking a deep drag.

He sees Hanzo’s nose wrinkle out of the corner of his eye, and he considers putting it out, but decides against it. Hanzo keeps his secrets, and McCree gets to keep his cigarillo. God, he really is stubborn, isn’t he?

They manage to find a good-looking store in town, it's sign just a wind-stripped as the last, along with the signs hanging outside that once boasted prices. What little is left of the paint barely hints at what was once there, but it was the only store so far that hadn’t had a wall full of wanted posters behind the counter. They both thought it better not to go into those, despite not exchanging words. The push their way inside, Hanzo first, and the small ring of the bell hanging above the door catches the shopkeeper’s attention.

“Welcome in!” They say, sparing a glance up at them. “I’ve never seen you two before, so let me know if you can't find anything.” The person behind the counter smiles at them, before going back to tinkering on something on their desk. 

Hanzo thanks then quietly with a slight bow of his head, before traversing towards what looks like food rations stacked on a shelf. McCree doesn’t follow, instead finding his way towards the counter to browse the tobacco products behind it. The shopkeeper's eyes flick up to him briefly before going back to the object on his desk, and McCree can feel himself relax. Lingering eyes usually mean suspicion, and getting caught like this first thing wouldn’t bode well for the rest of the journey. Soon enough, Hanzo strides back up next to him and places his items on the counter. It startles them both out of their focus.

He nudges McCree with his elbow. “I suggest you get rations as well. We have a ways to go.”

“Nah, I aint got money right now. I’ll hunt instead.” He responds. 

“Very well.”

McCree chews his cigarillo again, harshly. The sudden tension rubs him all the wrong way, and a pleasant ride ending in a rough night sends his brow furrowing. Usually he could give less than two shits about what people think of him, but for some reason this one in particular is frustrating to no end. It feels like falling back to square one, like they hadn’t been talking and sharing stories for a good four hours, like they hadn’t finally decided to be civil with each other. McCree hates losing, and he hates starting over even more.

Hanzo finishes paying, and McCree mutters a ‘thanks’ for him before grabbing him by the arm and dragging him out of the store. He almost misses the surprise written across the shopkeepers’ face. 

Hanzo opens his mouth - he assumes to reprimand him - before McCree cuts him off. “Look, Hanzo, I don’t know what happened to make you so averse to tellin’ me why I’m actually here, and I honestly could care less.” He whispers at him angrily, leaning into his ear. The man is stiff where he stands but stays silent. “But I’m not one to work for reasons I don’t get told. If you ain’t gonna spill, I ain’t gonna work any further.”

“And what makes you so sure I need you?” He whispers back with a hiss. “What makes you think I cannot move forward?”

“You sought me out in the first place. If you didn’t need me, you wouldn’t have gone lookin’ for me.” He whispers back, his hand loosening its grip on the other man's arm. “And I know for a fact I ain’t an easy man to find.”

Hanzo angrily sighs next to him, his breath brushing across his ear and sending a shiver down his spine. There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Fine.” He spits out and yanks his arm from McCree’s grip before shaking his arm out. His eyes have receded to the sharpness they were before, and he glances at McCree out of the corner of his eye. “We will find ourselves a place to stay, first. I’ll tell you then.”

McCree made quick work out of it. He could care less what room they end up getting, and soon enough McCree is standing in front of the door while Hanzo is sitting on the bed, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. McCree taps his foot against the floorboards with a raised brow, and Hanzo looks at him with a glare before directing his gaze to his hands, that of which are curled on his legs. His mouth opens and closes several times, looking for the proper words.

He takes a deep breath. “It is true that you are here as a guide, of sorts. I have only been to this side of the country once, that being when I landed here.” He starts, still not looking up. He scratches at his own leg before tightening the same hand back into a fist. “My other reason, the one you so desperately need to do your job -” Hanzo spits this through gritted teeth. “- are ones of personal suspicion. I believe there is a human trafficking ring that is somehow related to the disappearance of the man we are looking for, and I aim to dismantle that while I’m here, as well.” He explained. McCree had known there must be one in the states, rumors and suspicious activity are abound in unclaimed territories, but he’d never taken the time to pinpoint one. “They managed to abduct me when I first got here.”

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline before understanding begins to trickle in.

“A small group of them managed to drug me into unconsciousness from Oregon to North Carolina. My body had begun to work up an immunity to it, and I managed to escape from their hold, and I had heard his name spoken in between my periods of drugged stupor.”

His understanding is quickly overshadowed by guilt. Going from Oregon to North Carolina, just to loop back again of his own volition seemed off now.

“So yes, you are here as more than a guide, but I hadn’t planned on you having to watch my back until later in the job. Believe it or not, McCree, it was not my intention to misguide you. I do not know you yet, and your integrity was still up for questioning.”

McCree can feel the guilt bubbling from his stomach, clawing up his throat, almost to the point of nausea. This is why he hates prying, this feeling when the prying is too far, the ache that makes his gut clench and his bones feel like they’re buzzing. He starts to fiddle with the edge of his serape.

“I wanted to make sure you would stick around, at least until the time came.” Hanzo pushes forward, unbeknownst to McCree’s internal struggle. He finally looks up at him, his gaze piercing, and the only light in his eyes being the light of the candle they’d lit when they first got in the room. “Happy now? Any more questions?”

McCree tears his eyes away from Hanzo and straight down to his boots, then the floorboards, then the wall, and then the other, before he swallows deeply. He had gone too far and demanded too much - he thought he’d learned his lessons the first hundred times - and he blurted out the first and most prominent thing that came to his mind.

“I’m sorry.”

Hanzo’s glare goes crooked and his eyebrows rise at the ends. McCree privately thinks to himself that he’s got good eyebrows before he decides it isn’t the right time. “What?”

McCree blinks, and looks at him confused. “I’m… sorry?”

“For what?” He replies, his glare gone and replaced with an expression that looks equally confused.

McCree takes another breath and a beat to respond. “Pryin’. I should've… I don’t know, waited ‘til you told me on your own terms.” He takes his hat off of his head and messes with the brim. “Somethin’ like that.”

Hanzo takes a moment to reply, and McCree studies the other man's confused face. “An apology is unnecessary.” He finally says, looking away. “You have the right to know.”

“Yeah, but you said you were gonna tell me anyways. And what you went through - are going through - sounds real rough.” McCree replies awkwardly, wishing that he were as good with apologies as he was with storytelling. His way with words always seemed to disappear when it was important, and he always ended up feeling like a fool for it. “So, I’m sorry.”

There’s a beat of silence while Hanzo mirrors McCree’s earlier actions, his eyes finding anywhere in the room except for him, but his expression just as nonplussed. “It…” He huffs, crossing his arms. “It was in the past. All I can do now is focus on what will happen.” He continues before his shoulders relax minutely. There’s another beat of silence before he speaks again, his expression melting from confusion to a mix of apology and gratitude. “But thank you.”

“Past or not, shit like that’ll haunt you. I’d know.” McCree said, moving around the other man to the small nightstand next to the bed. He places his hat on top of it before glancing back at the other man, who’s arms are still crossed. “But I like your take on it.”

Hanzo lets out a huff of breath, almost like a laugh. “It is not my wisdom. It is Genji’s” He responds, uncurling him arms, and standing from the bed himself. He turns around, his mouth poised to say something, before he freezes entirely, eye’s trained on the mattress. “McCree.”

“Yeah?”

Somehow this moment of silence is more tense then anything so far. “There is only one bed.”

…

Shit.


	4. Chapter 4

He can hear Hanzo take a deep, deep breath, his eyes closing slowly and his mouth barely creeping open. “You didn’t say we needed two?”

McCree swallows deeply, looking away from Hanzo. “... No.”

There’s another beat of silence, and honestly, McCree is too scared to spare a glance at Hanzo’s face to prod around for what he’s feeling. He can feel his mouth pressed into a flat line, and his eyes are wide, and dread starts to creep up his spine as the silence continues. McCree had managed to not get killed so far, despite his fuckups, and he’s hoping to God that an apology will keep it that way. He starts to open his mouth to apologize for the millionth time that day but is cut off when he hears what sounds like someone trying to hold in thunderous laughter. He looks to Hanzo, who’s now covering the top half of his face with his hand, his mouth curled in a way that he’s trying desperately to hold in the sound.

He fails in his task - and what a laugh it is, that escapes him.

It’s loud and ugly, and it fills the room so quickly that McCree jumps at the sound - but nonetheless, it sends his heart to his throat and his face flushes deeply. Hanzo’s expression has cracked into one like he hasn’t laughed like this in years; his mouth wide and open in a smile and his eyes squeezed shut like if he doesn’t keep them closed, they’ll pop out completely. McCree’s own expression drops from one of dread to one of slack-jawed awe, and he feels his face flush deeper for an entirely different reason then embarrassment, and he quickly averts his eyes to stomp it down. It grows anyway, like a weed from his stomach to his throat, and he covers his own face with his hands.

It’s a good laugh. Distantly, he thinks it’s a beautiful laugh - not that he’ll admit it anytime soon.

The other man’s laugh starts to die down, and McCree spares a glance - to test the waters, in a way - and the other man is in that stage where you’re still breathing heavy and wiping the tears from your eyes, and he can feel his heart squeeze again. In the midst of Jesse’s internal crisis, Hanzo manages to speak.

“I am sorry.” He speaks, and huffs a laugh, “It’s just- of course, that has to happen now.” 

McCree can hear himself grumble, his face still burning red. “Don’t gotta tease me about it.”

Hanzo shoots him a look, basically reading as ‘Do you really think I couldn’t?’ before he takes a breath and lets it out. “Christ,” he speaks, “At least we got a queen-sized bed. It is big enough for the two of us.”

“You’re serious?” McCree replies, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Figured I could just sleep on the floor.”

The other man scoffs, his smile still lingering. “Please, we are not children. We do not have cooties.” He responds, starting to shuck off his jacket before he hangs it on a coat rack next to the bed. “Just keep on your side.”

McCree’s got a funny feeling that this will end badly, what with his touch starved state and the very rare use of an actual bed, and he’ll end up traveling in his sleep. He hopes acting like it won't happen will keep it from happening, so he shrugs and shucks off his serape. “Alright. I sleep shirtless, hope that don’t bother you.”

“Just do not touch me.” The other man responds, and McCree can hear the bed creak under Hanzo’s weight while he takes his shirt off and sits on the other side of the bed. They both work their shoes and other riding gear off, McCree casually tossing it on the floor while Hanzo neatly folds his and places them next to his side of the mattress.

It's admittedly awkward, lying down next to the other man, blindly working his way under the covers while trying not to bump him. Their backs are to each other and the room is deadly quiet, save for the shuffling of Hanzo adjusting himself to his comfort, while McCree is frozen solid. It’s not that he hasn’t laid in bed with someone for a while, but there was usually more touching. In fact, that was mostly the point, so it almost feels natural for his accursed brain to drift to thoughts of it. He does his best to ignore the flashing of images in his mind - Hanzo on his back underneath him is one of the more persistent ones - and he presses his head further into the ratty pillow underneath him. Every time he blinks, he sees another one, and he huffs in annoyance.

He stays up longer than Hanzo, if the soft snoring is anything to go by, and he eventually falls into a fitful sleep after exhausting himself trying to shut up his brain. Needless to say, his dreams don't end up being any better.

-

When he wakes up, he’s flipped over with his arm flopped over the empty place where Hanzo had slept. It takes him a few moments to blink himself into semi-consciousness before he registers that that's a bad thing, and he quickly raises himself up onto his forearms to turn his head and lets out a sigh of relief when he finds the other man buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. McCree plops his head back down and sighs, stretching out his legs under the covers.

“Mornin’ Hanzo.” 

Hanzo’s head whips around and lands on McCree, and if he wasn’t half-asleep, he probably would’ve noticed the faint dusting of red high on the other mans’ cheeks. “Good morning.”

McCree sits up on the bed and stretches his arms above his head while letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. He scratches the scruff on the side of his face. “Sleep well?”

There’s a beat of silence before Hanzo turns away from him. “You insisted on lying your arm across my neck the entire night, so no.” He replies, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves again. 

McCree, although half-asleep, has the decency to look apologetic. “Aw, damn. Sorry ‘bout that.” He wipes the crust from his eyes before swinging his legs off the side of the bed and heaving himself up. He swears it feels like a chore.

“Don’t be. It was foolish of me to ask something of an unconscious man.” He replies, still not looking back. McCree swears he can hear the man muttering to himself, but he shrugs it off and starts to dress for the day. 

McCree is about to say he slept well before his dreams come flooding back to him, and he bites his own tongue. He can feel his face start to heat before he drags his hand across his face to will the images away, the room remaining blessedly (and awkwardly) silent before he finally slips on his boots.

He feels compelled to apologize again, but as he opens his mouth to do so, Hanzo speaks over him. “If you apologize again, I will not speak to you again until we reach our next destination.”

McCree’s mouth snaps closed.

“You apologize too much, McCree. You existing is no reason to ask for forgiveness.”

Anger bubbles up in his chest at first, almost a knee-jerk reaction to being given advice he didn’t ask for before it hits him that that's about the nicest words that have been said to him since Gabe went missing. Or died, or something - he was never quite sure which - and he swears something about Hanzo digs into old scars like it’s his job. 

McCree isn't sure how to respond to something that feels so out of left field. The only thing he’s gotten for a while is a compliment about his aim or his face, but this is a different kind of nice that makes him feel like he’s messed up somewhere or like the inside of his lungs has fallen asleep. He drags his hand across his chest and answers the best way he can.

“Thank you.”

There’s a beat of silence before Hanzo replies. “You’re welcome.”

The rest of the morning goes on without incident. There’s the typical idle chatter of two people getting set to leave somewhere, checking pockets and the rest of the room to make sure no belongings get left behind before they hit the road. McCree makes sure to tip his hat at the shopkeeper sweeping his storefront, and he gets a wave in return. The sun is barely above the horizon and already McCree can feel a sweat start to build on his forehead. He takes out a cigar and lights it, the burning end somehow feeling brighter than the morning sun.

-

McCree guesses it’s around noon when they stop again. The other man yanks a stopwatch out of his jacket pocket and confirms his suspicion, and they both agree to stop again. The two pause in a lightly wooded area and the leaves of the trees are lit neon green by the sun's rays, that of which McCree is happy to find cover from. He plucks the hat off the top of his head and fans himself with it, letting out a deep sigh. Hanzo looks at him for a moment, looking for all the world like he wants to cool off, and McCree wordlessly hands his hat over. The other thanks him quietly before fanning himself, and McCree rifles through the bag on the side of his horse only to remember he hadn’t actually bought any food in the last town.

Hanzo is still fanning himself when McCree peers over his shoulder at him with a sheepish look on his face. The other man raises a brow at him. “So y’know how I said I was gonna hunt?”

Hanzo squints at him, before sighing and walking over, putting McCree’s hat back on his head on the way. “You are lucky I bought extras.”

McCree chuckles from underneath his hat, which tipping over his face while the other man was putting it on. “Thank you kindly.”

Ready-to-eat food isn’t particularly pleasant, but it’s better with company. They both choke it down, Hanzo’s face turning an expression that can only read as ‘suffering’, and soon enough the forest turns into a peaceful enough silence that McCree has to get up. 

“Now that I got my energy back, I think I’m gonna go hunting.” He says, pulling his gun out of his holster. 

He hears Hanzo huff. “I do not blame you,” he replied, going to his horse, and plucking a case down from her back, “In fact, I think I may join you.”

McCree chuckles. “Figured you would. You didn’t seem too impressed with the food you got.”

“Yes, well, it was… lackluster, in place of a better word.” He replies, clicking the case open and starting to assemble his bow. 

“Gross?” 

Hanzo chuckles. “That’s the one.”

McCree chuckles as well and twirls Peacekeeper on his finger while he waits and finds comfort in the natural sounds of the forest. Or at least he thought he wood - oddly, the space around him feels deadly quiet, and he whips his head around. It all seems normal up until he sees a bush looking back at him, and his eyes widen as the gleam of the barrel of a gun shines like the burning end of his morning cigar.

He curses when he makes eye contact and the barrel moves, halting twirling Peacekeeper and aiming it at the hand holding the gun on the other side of the bush. He fires as soon as he thinks it’ll land and Hanzo curses loudly behind him, and the gleam of the other gun flys somewhere into the brush as a splatter of blood leaps through the air. McCree’s head whips around to Hanzo, who’s standing with his bow raised like he had just released an arrow. He follows the path of where it would be with his eyes to a figure curled over on the ground, the arrow lodged into their knee. He turns back around to the other person, who’s crawling towards his gun on his knees, and McCree aims his gun at him again.

“Get down or the next one’s goin’ through your skull, partner.” He shouts, stalking towards them with a sneer. The person shuffles to a stop as McCree walks closer, gun still pointing to the person's head. “Mind tellin’ me what the hell you think you’re doin’?”

The man's mouth squeezes to a tight-lipped line, but he glares back into McCree’s eyes. He’s got balls, he can give him that, but he’s not here for baseless courage - he’s here for answers. He steps on the man’s hand and grinds his toe into it and presses the end of the barrel of his gun to the man's temple. His mouth opens into a silent scream, and McCree asks him again.

“Tell me. Now.” He says, practically spitting it from between his teeth.

He hears a sickening crack from behind him, and he grinds his toe before turning around to see Hanzo had snapped the other man's neck. His brow furrowed as the other man got up and tore his arrow out of his knee. 

“We cannot afford loose ends.” He explained before strolling over to McCree’s side. The light splatter of blood across Hanzo’s cheek shouldn’t rouse him like it does, and he turns his gaze back down to the other man, who’s still writhing in pain.

McCree chewed the inside of his cheek. “Well, this one ain’t talkin’.” He responded, nudging his gun on the man’s temple.

“I got it out of the other one. They were tracking us for your bounty.” He responded, looking down his nose at the other man.

“Y’ sure that was all?” McCree asked, lightening his foot grinding as he stared down his criminal. “You wanna confirm, or die useless?”

The man on the ground seethes beneath him. “Fuck you to death.”

“Hey now, that ain’t necessary. Keep a civil tongue and I just might let you go.” He responded. McCree knew he couldn’t of course, but the man didn't need to know that.

“Civil tongue? Don’t lecture me ‘bout no ‘civil tongue’ with that accent, you fuckin’ hick.”

McCree grits his teeth and stands, taking his foot off the man's hand to drive it into the side of his head. The man falls over with a pained groan and covers his recently kicked temple with his healthy hand, and curls into the fetal position on the ground. “And what the fuck did I just say?” He responds, all venom.

Then the man has the gall to spit on his boots. Before he can retaliate, an arrow drives through the man's skull with a sickening thwack, and the man goes limp. He whips around to Hanzo, who’s turned away to head back to the horses. 

“We do not have time.” He hears him mumble, and he huffs out a breath and kneels to yank the arrow out of the man on the ground's head. He closes his eyes to do so but can still feel the warm splatter of blood on the cuffs of his jeans, and his lip curls.

Normally it would bother him when someone stole his kill, but for some reason, this stings a lot less than usual. He can't tell if it’s because he finds Hanzo undeniably attractive even splattered with blood, or if he realizes that what little thrill he was having at someone being kneeled at his boots again wasn't worth the lack of reward. He would’ve stayed like that for a while, too, trying to get anything out of the man, so he settles for being glad that Hanzo got it over with.

He follows behind Hanzo in silence - that eerie silence that follows after you kill a man - but the forest resumes its idle chirping, and Hanzo yanks a handkerchief from the inside of his jacket to wipe the blood off of his face, before offering it to McCree. He takes it, wiping the blood from his gloves and the toe of his boot, ignoring the cuffs of his jeans. Blood dries brown, so he can pass that off as dirt or mud, but he was always uncomfortable with having literal blood on his hands. He gives it back to Hanzo, who solemnly tucks it into his jacket before mounting his horse, not looking at McCree.

He supposes that’s understandable. He knows he turns into quite a sight when he’s cruel like he was. McCree wouldn't want to look at himself either. Hanzo kicks the sides of his horse to start up a walk, and McCree silently follows behind him.

“You have done that before, haven’t you?” He hears from in front of him.

McCree looks at his hands that are wrapped in his reigns, and he can feel the warmth of fresh blood like it’s still there. “Somethin’ like it. Ain’t a stranger to interrogation if that’s what you mean.”

He hears a deep shuddered breath in front of him, and McCree curls in on himself at the obvious disgust from the man he’s following. He feels gross inside all over again, the thrill of being in power wiped away into nausea lining his stomach.

-

Hanzo is disgusted with himself. He really shouldn’t have found that so hot.


	5. Chapter 5

The remainder of their ride is quiet, and uncomfortably so. McCree knows they’re both seasoned killers, the casual way that Hanzo had offed the two men was enough to tell, but the aftermath of a double-murder is anything but normal. No matter how much death he’s seen it never seems to get easier, and part of him can't believe he hasn’t lost it yet. The thought fleets through his mind that maybe that's why he can't handle silence, but it’s gone as quick as it came, sure to resurface as soon as he’s alone again. Company always seems to muzzle the worst of his thoughts, and he is not excited for when this job is over.

Despite himself, Hanzo’s company has been one of the best things that’s happened to him in months, despite their disagreements, almost because of them - he misses squabbling with someone without it leading up to a gunfight. It's relaxing to let loose around the other man instead of masking himself with half-hearted politeness or ignorance, depending on who he was talking to. All of his interactions with other people have been touch-and-go arrangements, satiating another person for a night or ending up having to kill them because they felt like challenging him, and the only conversations he’d had as of late that weren’t with Hanzo have consisted of him asking for a drink or something hushed and low in an alleyway to get someone going.

Either way, the new company is nice. Even if it is just for work.

The sun is beginning to dip into the horizon before they stop again, no town in sight, and McCree remembers Hanzo mentioning this would be a two-day journey. He also remembers promising stories for the campfire, but he’s not sure Hanzo would want to hear them anymore, and even if he did, the intense attention he paid him would make McCree flush. His stomach churns with the thought as Hanzo pulls his horse to a stop next to the trail they’d been following. They stopped in a clearing this time, the short dry grass going for about half a mile all around them before it melted back into the tree line, and the openness around them made McCree relax slightly. The less hiding spots the better, based on their little interaction from earlier, but he preemptively sweeps over the grass around them with his eyes.

Again, his eyes catch on the horizon as the sunset settles into its full show. It really is gorgeous, and McCree slides off his horse before turning back to it and squints into the sun. He feels Hanzo stand next to him, leading his horse by the reins, and they linger there in silence for a good few seconds before McCree chances a glance at him.

The light of the setting sun is painted across his face, caressing his cheekbones and the ridge of his nose, and his expression has settled into one McCree hasn’t seen before. The scowl is gone, and his frown lines are relaxed, along with the usual crease between his brows. His eyes are soft, and a dark enough brown that the sun is only a bright speck lingering under his pin-pricked pupils, and McCree realizes all too late that he’s staring. He excuses himself for it, just this once, because Hanzo looks like he’s fallen asleep standing up with how relaxed his face has fallen. It makes his stomach churn for a different reason and his heart flutters in his chest, and he sighs before directing his gaze back to the sun, now about three quarters below the tree line. 

For a split second he feels eyes on him too, and as that turns into a couple of seconds, he blushes lightly and pulls a cigar from his serape, before lighting it with a match.

“Reckon we should get a fire goin’ before it goes full dark.” He says, tipping his hat over his eyes. He feels the gaze leave his face when Hanzo responds.

“I suppose we should.”

The sun goes all the way down, and luckily the dry grass around them was good enough tinder to start a small campfire in a convenient clear spot. The atmosphere has shifted somehow, although McCree can't put a finger on it, and they settle around it while their horses are tied down. McCree tosses the cigar into the fire and Hanzo looks at him almost expectantly.

“Still gunnin’ for a story?” He asks with a smirk, taking off his hat and placing it down next to him.

Hanzo looks away from him like he wasn’t staring at him and shuffles in his spot. “If you’d like to.”

McCree chuckles good-naturedly. “A’right, but I need a lil’ somethin’ for this one.” He responded before pulling a second flask out of his serape, noticeably smaller and more ornate than the other. “Got an emergency stash o’ liquor, if you’re wonderin’.”

“Emergency liquor is not a term I thought I’d ever hear.” Hanzo responds, his eyebrow quirked. He’s eyeing McCree with a slight judgmental edge, and McCree wisely sticks his tongue out at him.

“If you lived my life, you’d have one too.” He says, uncapping the top and taking a sip. It burned going down, and he grins and lets out a low hum. “Nothin’ like lukewarm whiskey after a day o’ ridin’.”

He hears Hanzo scoff at him but looking over he sees that he’s grinning. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Or at least share.”

McCree can tell that he’s joking, but it feels like a challenge, so he caps and tosses the flask to Hanzo without a word. To his surprise, Hanzo catches it and uncaps it again, taking his own sip. It all goes by so quick that McCree’s brain barely gets to go over the childish implications of sharing a drink before Hanzo tosses the flask back to him. He catches it despite the distraction.

“Alright, Hanzo - tell me, you ever seen a creature that made your blood go cold where you stood?” He asks with a wicked grin, gesturing towards him with his flask. Immediately the man's attention hyper focuses on him, and as he opens his mouth to respond McCree cuts him off. “Because I have. I was a scrappy young teen at the time, barely fifteen out on nightwatch with my pappy. We had livestock to protect, and coyotes were becomin’ a worse issue with every passin’ day, and my pappy’s aim was gettin’ worse. And believe me, coyotes did come, you could hear ‘em all ‘round you like you was in one o’ those fancy theatres, and boy howdy can they sing.” He explained, gesturing widely to distract himself from the other man’s rapt attentions, trying to keep his heart from melting at the childish wonder sparkling in his eyes like the campfire.

“There was a little group o’ them down the way, and I spotted it before my pappy did. I shook his shoulder to point ‘em out, but before I called his name, I felt my blood go cold. There was one on the tail end of the group, quiet as death, and looking dead at me. I swear it was practically lookin’ through. Now that aint unusual - usually when coyotes notice they’re noticed the go quiet and get on their defences, but none o’ the other ones stopped howlin’.” He explained, before uncapping his flask and taking another sip before tossing it back at Hanzo. The other man fumbles for it, distracted by McCree’s story, but takes a sip himself. McCree continues while he’s occupied. 

“I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the thing, with it lookin’ at me like that. My pappy noticed me stoppin’ in my tracks and I just pointed at the group. O’ course, he couldn’t see it, but I sure as shit did.” He paused, looking around them in a mock gesture before turning back to Hanzo, and grinned when he saw the other man glance around nervously. “The thing looked blind, Hanzo, its eyes were nothin but the reflection of the moon, but it was lookin’ at me and my pappy like it could see through my soul. It had the kinda stare that sucks you into focus, and I swear it changed while I was lookin’. The thing started gettin’ longer, in its snout and it legs, the image of it got blurry at the edges - thought I’d die if I blinked.”

Hanzo is leaning towards him now, hand still gripped around the flask hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. “And?” He asked impatiently, and it sent McCree smiling.

“I started whimpering’ like a child, sure as anything that it wasn’t some plain old coyote, and my pappy was tuggin’ at my sleeve to usher me inside. I blinked then, pulled out of the things gaze, and as soon as I turned back to see it before my pappy got me through the door, it was gone. The whole pack was gone, Hanzo, and I couldn’t hear even the echo of the coyotes.” He continued, face dropping from his grin and turning into something serious. “It was never quiet there. I couldn’t sleep just thinkin’ about it that night, and the only thing that knocked me out was exhaustion. I dreamed of the damn thing, those moon eyes borin’ into me, and when I woke up it was to my Mama screamin’ her head off. O’ course I jumped outta my old bed and ran out to ask what was wrong, but as soon as my mouth opened, the most rancid smell you’d ever experience flooded my senses. I whipped my head around our lil’ house and there it was, out the window.”

He points his finger to just above his belt buckle. “One of our poor cows was slit up the middle, laid over on its side with its guts spilled on the lawn. From just in front of its back legs,” He drags his finger from there to where his throat meets his jaw, “all the way up to its neck. Most gruesome thing I’d ever seen, and I watched my own damn arm get ripped off.”

Hanzo shudders, and McCree takes pride in the picture he managed to paint to get that kind of reaction for the other, usually stoic man. “Then? What else?”

He smiles and looks at Hanzo with a lowered brow. “I went out to check out the scene. My pappy was standin’ over it, his face paler than paper, and I never saw a man as quiet as he went. I turned to look at the poor animal again, and my eyes were drawn to its face, and lo and behold, it had those damn eyes. Swear it shone like the moon.”

He watches Hanzo’s throat bob and he glances around again. “Have you seen it since?”

McCree shakes his hand and holds out his hand for the flask, and Hanzo tosses it back over. He catches it and takes a sip. “Nope. Not once since that night. Ain’t no damn coyote, though, that’s for sure.”

“God,” Hanzo replies, and he shudders again, “I will be thinking about that for far too long after this.”

McCree chuckles and tucks his flask back into his serape. “Funny how we’ll think about that instead of the folk we killed today.”

Hanzo’s face pinches before he scoffs. “Those men were hardly frightening. I’ve dealt with their kind before, but something untraceable and otherworldly as the thing from your story, just…”

McCree nods solemnly. “I getcha. Knowin’ what you’re up against is a lot less dauntin’ than fearin’ the unknown.” He replies, before looking into the flames of the campfire.

Hanzo falls silent and stares at the fire too, before taking a precautionary glance at the field around him. McCree almost chuckles at it but settles for a smile.

-

The slight buzz of the alcohol in his system wasn’t enough to send him to sleep. This was proved by how he’s lying on his back now, his arms used as a make-shift pillow, and he’s spent so long trying to map the stars winking above him that it feels like his eyes have gone numb. He sighs to himself and rolls onto his side to look at Hanzo, who's sleeping facing away from him and curled under a thin blanket he’d brought with him. He stares for a while, eye’s tracing the seams of the clothes as far as he can, watching him shift slightly in his sleep and listening to his slow breathing, and he sighs again. McCree’s tired, he can tell by the way his eyelids droop, but his mind is awake, if mostly blank. 

He’s finally starting to drift off when he hears Hanzo’s breath hitch, and he twitches in his sleep a little bit more intensely than the last ones. McCree’s eyes snap back open as he watches silently, almost relaxing again before Hanzo twitches a second time, a garbled noise of distress escaping his throat. His own brow furrows at that and he lifts his head slightly in concern. Hanzo lets out another noise and rolls on to his back, his brow pinched tightly, and his teeth bared, while his breathing grows heavy and erratic. McCree sits up for real now, and it finally hits his sleep-addled brain that the other man is having a nightmare.

Hesitantly, he puts his hand on the other man's shoulder and shakes it, softly calling his name. All it does is cause the other man to thrash in his sleep, something between and growl and grunt escaping his mouth, like he’s trying to shake off McCree’s hand. He holds it there steady despite the movement, and he shakes harder before saying Hanzo’s name again, louder, and more insistent then before. 

It happens in a flash, and suddenly McCree is thrown onto his back with Hanzo’s hand on his throat, the fluttering of his blanket being thrown off in the background as McCree’s eyes dart around before he lands back on Hanzo. As quick as it was, McCree swore he had seen it in slow-mo, and is surprised to find that he doesn’t feel fear despite the nails digging into the soft spots on his neck, clearly with the intent to kill. The other man is hovering over him, breathing heavily, his eyes wide open but clearly not seeing what he’s doing, and McCree stares back, at a loss for any meaningful thought except for the feeling of Hanzo’s hand on his throat. McCree’s hand flies to the other man's wrist, gripping it tightly, and something in Hanzo’s terrified gaze cracks into consciousness.

McCree manages to grit out the other man's name, despite the lack of air.

Hanzo’s heavy breathing slows and he blinks, eyebrows relaxing and the hand around his throat loosens slightly. McCree breathes a little bit deeper when it does, gentling his hold on the other man's wrist. Hanzo takes another deep breath before withdrawing his hand completely - but instead of leaning away from McCree like he’d expected, he puts it next to McCree’s head and braces himself there, and his head drops as his eye’s close. McCree breathes deeply himself, unable to do anything other than breath the other man in and lie there, until he almost unconsciously brings his arms up and wraps them around the other man's back, before gently tugging him down onto his chest. Surprisingly, Hanzo goes willingly and he rests his head in the crook of McCree’s neck while he rubs his hands soothingly up and down the others back.

McCree blearily notices himself cooing at the other man, soft whispers and promises that it will be okay, whatever he’s going through, that he can relax now, that he’s safe. And Hanzo, who was shaking when McCree first lowered him down into his chest, slowly melts into him as his breathing evens out and the tremors that were wracking his smaller frame die down. McCree feels bold in his half-asleep stupor, and he brings up his hand to the back of the other man's head, drawing his fingers through his short hair. It doesn’t feel like he’d just been sleeping on the floor as it slips through his fingers, and he takes an even bolder step by kissing the crown of the other man's head.

He’s pretty sure if they were both fully lucid, Hanzo would strike him across the jaw for the action, but as it is, the other man just stills in McCree’s hold. McCree stills too, worried that he’d broken whatever comfortable bubble McCree had managed to provide the other man, and Hanzo starts to push himself up off of his chest. McCree tries to stutter out an apology as he unwraps his arms from around Hanzo’s back, not keen on forcing him to stay there, and prepares himself for a glare.

He’s shocked to find it’s anything but. Hanzo is wearing the same soft expression he had when staring into the horizon earlier. McCree blinks and the image flashes, the sunlight airbrushing the other man's features, before he comes back to reality where the campfire light flickers on his cheeks and hits the corners of his eyes. The realization that crosses his mind makes McCree feel like a fool for not noticing it earlier - but he doesn't think he’s seen anyone so gorgeous. McCree freezes where he is, Hanzo hovering above him mere inches away, their breaths mingling and soft. He barely notices Hanzo’s hand lift from the ground beside his head to cradle his jaw, but he’s hyper aware of the way the other man's thumb draws across his cheek. His own breath hitches at the feeling and he blinks blearily, drunk on the tender sensation.

He can feel his own breath deepen and slow as they stay like that, staring into each other's eyes, and McCree can feel the drag of sleep trying to pull him into unconsciousness. He fights it off by blinking again, unwilling to stop looking at the sight before him and wholly invested in where this goes, if it goes anywhere at all - and his heart feels more tender than it has in years. Hanzo’s thumb keeps up it's gentle ministrations and McCree swears he can almost groan at the way that makes him feel. It makes him feel like he isn’t a criminal on the run, or a man with hands so bloody that he can see it when he looks at them, it makes him feel like he’s as innocent as the day he was born. Like being cradled in the arms of someone you’ve known for years, instead of days.

And for a second, he stopped running. And for a second, he didn’t feel like he had to.

What happens next almost feels natural and Hanzo lowers himself closer, his eyes falling from relaxed to closed, and McCree closes his eyes himself, and lets it happen.

Hanzo’s lips are dry and soft, and just about the best feeling McCree has felt so far.

He turns his head to accommodate and brings his hands back up, gently wrapping one across the back of Hanzo’s neck while the other finds its way to Hanzo’s hip, and Hanzo lies flush against him. He’s a heavy weight on McCree’s chest, his form slotting onto his effortlessly, like it had been there a thousand times before. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he kisses Hanzo back, chaste, and sweet, before the other man pulls away as both of their eyes flutter open. 

Hanzo is smiling down at him, soft as anything, and McCree isn’t sure what luck has gotten him where he is, but he’s not about to complain. Hanzo’s hand on his throat is a phantom now, barely registering in McCree’s mind, as the other man lowers his head back down into the crook of McCree’s neck. He takes a deep breath, letting his arms return to settling across Hanzo’s back, and he barely registers Hanzo speaking to him.

“Thank you, Jesse.”

McCree chuckles, deep in his chest and gravelly from the pull of sleep. “Any time, darlin’.”

Hanzo falls asleep before him again, still draped over McCree’s form, and he feels like he’s never gonna sleep this well again.


End file.
